by Terri Kraus
That could be one way we could possibly have a little time together. I think she likes it as much as I do.
Instead he continued to work on his estimates until they grew more complex and frustrating. He pushed them aside, picked up a builders’ magazine, and thumbed through it for a moment. He tossed it on the small end table, picked up a motorcycle magazine, and thumbed through that. In a moment, he tossed that aside as well.
I don’t need to be reminded of what I don’t have.
He thought of his daughter but forced her image away. He thought of his wife … the last time he saw her, the last time they spoke. He replayed that final scene until he could stand it no longer.
He thought about calling Ethan in Franklin, the only real friend he had in the world, but decided he had no good reason for the call.
And guys don’t just call each other to chitchat, he thought. Maybe I should go for a walk.
He grabbed his keys, his wallet, and headed outside, into the warm autumn evening.
I could … walk past the Midlands Building. Would that be too desperate?
After five, downtown Butler became a quieter place. All the folks from the few banks, several office buildings, and other businesses went home to the suburbs and left the main street empty. Renovation work on the old Penn Theater came to a halt. The restaurant crowd wouldn’t show up for a couple of hours.
Jack walked south instead of toward Leslie and stared in the windows of The Iron Works. Not many downtowns boasted of motorcycle shops housed in old department stores, but Butler did. While it was a far cry from selling linens and men’s suits, the shop was neat and clean, and always had wonderful old bikes in the windows, their chrome catching the afternoon sun. Jack stared and wondered if he would ever be successful enough to buy one again. Working as a single contractor made the goal harder to achieve. One mistake could wipe out months of hard work. And there was only so much work a single person could produce in the course of eight hours—or ten—or twelve.
He began to think about Leslie again … the way she laughed, her hands as she had made coffee, how she’d touched him, the way that felt, and the scent she wore that day in the empty apartment.…
Jack shook his head and continued walking down Main Street, past the offices of the Butler Eagle, past the courthouse and around the historic Lowrie House. He strolled by the old Mansion House, where, according to its aged bronze plaque, the Marquis de Lafayette was entertained in 1825. He crossed Main and walked around Diamond Square, stopping to stare up at the tall Silent Defender statue in the square’s center, past a big old stone church, then headed north and back toward home—toward his efficiency apartment that was barely big enough for one person, west of Main a couple of blocks off Jefferson Street.
His route passed by The Palm.
I’ll stop in for a burger. I don’t think I can eat any more ramen noodles this week.
He waited for a stoplight.
Just a burger. Nothing else.
He looked both ways and hurried across the street.
Only a burger.
He slipped into the cool dimness of The Palm. The tavern was fuller than at lunch—workers from the rolling mill down the street stopped off for a drink before heading home. The rumble of conversation and laughter were a comfort. Working alone, even with the radio on all the time, was hard.
Most of the afternoon patrons seemed to have edged farther inside, avoiding the half dozen seats near the front window with the flashing neon signs, and the afternoon sunlight. Jack slipped onto one of the stools, his back to the street. He nodded at the old-timers positioned at the end of the bar. He had seen them before. In fact, he had never not seen them when coming to The Palm.
Earl, the bartender, did not come up to him with his usual Coke. A new bartender with a very short crew cut and black plastic eyeglasses stood before Jack. A crisp, clean, tan apron was tied tightly around his waist and his white shirt was buttoned to the top button. He wore barely a hint of a welcoming smile.
“What can I do for you?”
Jack took a deep breath. He had expected to see Earl here. Earl understood him. Earl knew what Jack faced. Without speaking a word, Earl had known.
“A cheeseburger, I guess. Medium. With fries.” Jack’s mouth had gone dry. He knew why. He knew what to do. He knew.
“What to drink?”
He knew what to say. He knew what to answer. He knew. He knew. He knew.…
“A draft. Iron City.”
“Coming right up.”
The words had been so easy. They had simply escaped from his mouth, and the draft poured, slowly, into a chilled mug, with the head foaming, reaching for the top.
The words were out, and there was nothing Jack could do to retrieve them. There the beer was, in front of him, on a crisp white coaster with graceful letters. The sweat of the ice on the outside of the frosted mug slid down the side, delicate and cooling and enticing.
Jack knew what he had to do.
He extended his hand and would have pushed the mug away, farther from his grasp. He would have done that. He would have. But the coaster must have been wet, and the mug stuck to the coaster and didn’t slide at all.
A sip. A sip will not kill me. A sip never killed anyone. Just a sip. With the burger. Beer and burgers go together, right? Just a sip.
He tilted the mug ever so slightly, for just that sip, and there it was in his mouth. It went down his throat and felt ever so good. He allowed just a little more than a sip to pour from the glass and into his mouth. The yellowy punch, the familiar mellow caress filled his stomach, warming and cooling at the same time.
He put the mug down. Only an inch or two of the sparkly, wonderful beverage had been consumed. He would let it sit.
I’ll wait for the burger, then maybe … maybe I’ll take one more sip. I’ll ask the new bartender for a Coke … or a glass of water. That’s it. Just Coke with my food. I can’t be hurt with a glass of Coke.
Then he forgot the Coke. He took one more sip, put the mug down, and stared at his hands, not knowing what he was going to do next, but knowing full well what he was going to do. He closed his eyes and, in that brief, incandescent moment, actually thought of offering up a prayer, but he didn’t, because he didn’t know what to say. The milk had been spilled. The door had been left open. The barn had been left unlocked.
There could be no recourse, Jack thought, no efficacy of prayer that would undo what had already been done. When he opened his eyes, he felt warm and whole again, for the first time in such a long time, like he had been welcomed back as an old friend. In just a few minutes, everything would be better again. He wouldn’t be alone and lonely and down on his luck … he would be okay again.
It’s time. It’s time.
The shadows were lengthening as Leslie and Ava watched. Freddie did his work well, with smiling enthusiasm, roping and tying and maneuvering and pushing every piece of furniture into the minivan and some on top of the roof—the flat pieces, headboard, and footboard. He snugged one last piece of rope and tied it tight.
“You got somebody on your end to help with all this? I ask, ’cause I’m not seeing a ring there on your hand. I pay attention to little things like that. Now if you need somebody at your end, you can tell me, and I’ll come along and unload. I figure that’s all part of my Christian service—you know what I mean, to help people who need help. That’s why I like working at a church. I find all sorts of people who need help.”
Freddie spoke slowly and plainly, as if words were not his native language. And Leslie wanted to cry after he finished; she wanted to thank him somehow. She never could have loaded the minivan by herself. She never would have been able to do this on her own.
“Thanks so much, Freddie. I have a man working on the apartment next to ours. He’ll be able to help, I’m sure. He always works until
five, so we’ll be fine. But I really appreciate the offer.”
Freddie bowed and nodded at the same time. “If you need me, I’m always at the church. You can call, and they always know where to find me.”
Leslie was so touched, she had to hold back a sob getting into the minivan.
Ava had to sit in the front seat on the short trip home; the backseats had been folded down to allow for their new furniture. Ava worried the whole way about being stopped by the police and given a ticket for being allowed—being forced—to sit in the front.
Leslie dismissed her worries with a nervous laugh.
“You have to sit there, sweetie. What if the van were a pickup? There’s only an up-front in a truck. Police couldn’t arrest you for sitting up-front then.”
Ava once again considered the jumble of furniture behind her. “I could get under the dressing table … I think. There’s almost enough room.”
“But you wouldn’t be able to use the seat belt, Ava. You are much safer up here. And I will drive extra carefully, all the way. It’s not that far, sweetie.”
With that Ava slumped down a bit in the seat, perhaps hiding herself from any police observation, and held tight to the seat belt with both hands. Her mother saw the gesture and wondered if it was just her way to feel more secure. Obviously, their lives had been anything but secure for the past few years. Perhaps Ava had always done that. Perhaps it was a more recent affectation.
Leslie pulled the minivan to the curb, just outside the door of their apartment building. Parking was seldom a problem, but she was happy the space right out front was open. She looked around and didn’t see Jack’s familiar silver pickup.
“Ava, could you run upstairs and ask Jack—Mr. Kenyon—if he could come down?”
“Which key is it?” Ava asked.
Leslie picked it out. “The one with the red dot on it. That’s the key to the right door.”
Ava took great care in inserting it and unlatching the lock, then took off at a run up the stairs. Leslie heard her knock on the second door. She waited. She heard Ava knock again.
“The door was locked and nobody answered,” Ava said after running back down.
Leslie felt the panic rise again. How am I going to do this? How am I going to get all of this upstairs? I can’t leave it on the roof of the minivan overnight. Why isn’t Jack working late like he always does? I need him now—to help with this, I mean.
She grabbed her cell phone and dialed Jack’s number. The call immediately went into voice mail. She left no message. Her heart began to beat fast, and sweat formed on her forehead.
What am I going to do now?
“You could call Trevor’s daddy. Remember, Mommy? He said if you ever needed help with anything, he would help. Remember when he said that?”
Leslie did remember. Trevor had come over to watch Dora the Explorer after school one afternoon, and when Mike Reidmiller picked him up, he had made the offer.
Maybe …
Leslie wouldn’t let the panic rise further. She’d have to ask for a favor. She didn’t like asking for favors.
Upstairs, she opened up the kindergarten parents’ directory and dialed the number. Ava waited at the bottom of the steps, inside the door, watching the minivan. Butler was not a high-crime city by any stretch of the imagination, but Leslie could be a worrier and did not want anyone to make off with the headboard and rails, tied to the vehicle’s luggage rack.
Leslie watched her daughter, her little face pressed against the glass pane of the door. She spoke quickly once Mike Reidmiller answered.
“Trevor’s father will be here in five minutes,” Leslie said as she came down the stairs. “He said he’d bring Trevor along to help.”
Four minutes later, a dark green car pulled up to the curb. Leslie was terrible at knowing which model of car, but it was very clean and the interior didn’t have a jumble of bags and paper and wrappers that often inhabited Leslie’s minivan.
“Looks like you bought out the store, Mrs. Ruskin. I hope you worked them down on the price,” Mike said, smiling, as he began to unknot a fist-sized knot of rope.
“I didn’t need to,” she replied. “Sixty dollars for the entire load.”
Mike Reidmiller nodded in appreciation of a good deal. “Well, we’ll have this up in your place in a few minutes. It’s all light stuff. No heavy sleeper sofas or entertainment centers.”
Leslie helped as she could, and the four of them hustled every piece of furniture upstairs within the span of fifteen minutes. Mr. Reidmiller (“You have to call me Mike. You promised, remember?”) insisted on setting up Ava’s bed and placing the mattress and box springs on top.
“I’m not a man who leaves hard things for a woman to do,” he said as he sweated, moving the furniture around, asking every minute or two, “Is this the right place for this?”
At the end of the move, Ava and Trevor sat on the sofa watching some chattery cartoon on television.
“Thanks, Mike, for your help. I didn’t know what to do or who to call. I don’t know many people in town yet.”
Mike waved off her thanks. “It was nothing. A little bit of exercise is good for me.” He wiped his forehead with his sleeve.
Leslie waited, wondering what to do next. She felt that familiar stab of tension in her chest. “Would you like some … tea? Coffee? Something cold?”
“Coffee for sure. Unless it’s that flavored stuff. I don’t like flavored stuff,” he answered.
“It’s just regular coffee.”
“Then okay. Looks like the kids are busy for a while.”
He followed Leslie into the kitchen and took a seat with ease, like he’d been there before and was comfortable in Leslie’s presence—at home being in her home.
“This is a real nice place. You own the building, right? Trevor told me that … though, like I said, I’m never sure what to believe or not.”
Measuring out the coffee and water, Leslie answered. “I do. I needed a place to live. I hope to rent out the bottom floor, as well as the one empty apartment. That would really help with the mortgage.”
“Sounds like a smart move,” Mike answered.
Fussing with the coffee and cream was just enough of a distraction. Whatever discomfort she was feeling, whatever unease was building inside her, was being kept at bay by the busyness of her hands, which were occupied just enough to keep her from thinking too much about what was happening.
He’s a man, and he’s already expressed an interest in dating me. I don’t think I’m ready for this. Or am I? Am I being flirty with Jack … just because I’m ready? What about Mike? And what about Ava? Is she ready to see me with another man?
She placed the coffee and cream and a plate of Girl Scout Trefoil cookies on a tray and set it carefully on the table.
“Oh, boy—snacks,” Mike said, grinning. “I would have done this for free, but cookies are one fine paycheck.”
Later, Leslie couldn’t recall what she and Mike had talked about as he ate seven of her shortbread cookies and drank two cups of her coffee. She must not have been too odd or disjointed in her conversation, though, for he laughed and slapped at his knee at least once. Maybe it was twice. She recalled him nodding and bobbing at the end, as if his body movements were a punctuation, a period of sorts, on their time together. He gathered up Trevor, ruffled Ava’s hair in a good-bye, and at the bottom of the stairs, gave Leslie a modified, chaste, but enthusiastic hug of farewell.
“We hug a lot, our family,” he said as he stepped out into the street, car keys in hand. “Call if you need anything else. Anytime.”
Ava waved. Leslie almost waved. Their car sped off, Trevor leaning out the back window, yelling something neither Ava nor Leslie could understand.
Later that night, when Ava had been asleep for hours, Leslie sat on her new liv
ing room chair reading. She replayed the hug, the feeling of a man’s larger arms around her, the masculine smell and bristly experience of it all. She shut her eyes hard, tight, breathing deeply.
Part of her loved being held tight and snug and encompassed. Part of her needed it, found it reassuring, like the purr of a cat … or like the sound of a lock being locked, like feeling warm and safe.
But there was another part of being held, when she felt unwelcome arms tighten around her and pin her arms to her side. It was claustrophobic, a feeling Leslie hated, dreaded, could not bear. There were other unpleasant memories. It was black and gray and loud and overwhelming, and it came in cycles. There was pain and panic, although Leslie hated the word panic. She never wanted to think of that word and tried to will it all to go away—all the years of trembling and fear—willed it all to simply disappear.
Jack sat upright and squared his shoulders, inhaled deeply, and wondered if anyone around him had cigarettes. He would have liked to have a cigarette but knew they were bad for his health.
No sense in starting to smoke again. Nope. Expensive. No smoking.
He placed his hands on the bar. He had had enough. The cheeseburger and fries had been consumed a long time ago. Jack looked at his watch, squinted. It was darker now, and he couldn’t quite make out where the small hands were positioned. He looked up and scouted the room.
Never a clock handy when you need one. Maybe they don’t put ’em up ’cause then people will leave early or something.
“Hey, Sam, what time is it?”
The new bartender’s name was Sam. At least Jack thought it was Sam. He’d said it once.
Sam looked at his watch. “12:30.”
Jack had no idea it was that late. “Gotta go.”
He pushed off the chair and felt the rubbery give of the wooden floor. At least it felt rubbery and unstable to him.
“I’m walking home! Don’t worry about me!” Jack said.